


Sick Days and Bunny Boys

by Azar443



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 08:56:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11272161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azar443/pseuds/Azar443
Summary: "What bunny boy? Percival! Come back here? When did I call you bunny boy?”





	Sick Days and Bunny Boys

Thinking back on it, it really was a bad idea to go into work sick. You wake up on a Thursday morning as always, at 7 o’clock sharp. You climb out of bed and begin your morning routine when you feel the sudden urge to throw up. Rushing to the bathroom, you pay homage to the porcelain goddess and everything you’ve eaten the night before comes rushing back up. You’re pale and sweating when you’re done, and your legs are trembling from exhaustion but still you dress yourself in your work clothes; there’s an important briefing today that Mr Graves is chairing, and you can’t afford to miss it, especially when there’s the bi-yearly evaluation coming up. And so, with your whole body aching from a fever, and bile constantly rising up in your throat, you drag yourself to work and pray you get through the day without dying. Your mother would be very displeased if she received news that you had died without telling her.

Thankfully, it’s a quiet day and you’re occupied with filling in paperwork after paperwork. You have a cup of hot honey lemon before you, and downing the warm liquid soothes your irritated throat and sinuses. The room is far too hot and stifling, and you feel somewhat faint because your airways are blocked and your eyes keep watering and _no Susan, for the last fucking time, I’m not fucking crying!_ You’re certain time is having a grand time seeing you so miserable, because you swear the hands on the clock _never_ move. You’ve just finished the pile of paperwork and reports on your desk and _still_ it’s only noon. You have five more hours until you’re allowed to go home, two until you have to attend the briefing and if the devil had shown up there, offering you anything you wanted, you would have sold your soul to him in a heartbeat, if only so you can go home and wallow in your misery. But the clock ticks on with a sound that feels like laughter to your fever-ridden mind, and no supernatural being with a pointy tail and horns and trident. Just your luck.

You hear your name called through the haze of thoughts and slightly increasing hysteria, and you turn to face none other than Percival Graves, who is frowning at the flush on your otherwise pale cheeks. He calls your name again, voice laced with concern and you struggle to squeeze out a weak “Yes, sir?” His bushy brows are knitted together in a tight frown, and he’s crooking a finger at you, beckoning you to follow him as he sweeps off to his office. You stand sluggishly, wishing you hadn’t decided on wearing heels today and you wobble off after him, making a note to throw the blasted pair of shoes away when you get home.

The door closes behind you, and Percival gestures for you to sit, which you do gratefully because you think your tired knees are knocking against one another so loudly he might be able to hear the clacking of your bones. He magics a cup of hot tea in front of you and you cringe when he speaks because you’ve been answering the same question for hours now, and _really, Sharon, I didn’t realise that having a flushed face that looks like a boiled lobster and a voice that sounds like I have a skunk stuck in it presents a picture of fucking health._ “Are you well?” You grimace and politely reply to him that _yes I’m well, thank you very much._ There’s a pause, and an elegant lift of his brow tells you that you’ve convinced neither of you.

Percival leans closer to you, and you’re once again reminded how strikingly handsome he is. It says much about the hazed state of mind you’re in, that you wonder why you never pursued him as a romantic interest. He’s given you tender glances and spoken to you in soft tones in the past, and you’ve always enjoyed a friendly relationship, even going out for a drink or two. But you’re far too professional to boldly ask your superior out, and you like your job and the easy friendship you enjoy with him far too much to jeopardise either one. But your fevered mind apparently thinks it’s a good idea to broach to you now, in the middle of conversation with him, and you use every ounce of willpower to stop your mouth from saying things you’d rather stay silent.

You like Percival’s voice; it’s a low raspy sound that conveys calm and authority, and when he’s drunk a drink too many, you can hear a soft, watered down Irish lilt that makes you wonder how your name would sound on his tongue then. He rarely raises his voices, never has to, because there’s a quiet dignity and power to him and his precise words that are telling people, very firmly, to _look at me_. He’s speaking to you again, and your tired eyes flutter a little because he sounds so terribly soothing, but you shake yourself awake.

“I think you should go home, you’re in no position to attend the briefing.” He places a hand that’s meant to be comforting on yours, “No one will blame you for leaving early, and I’ll make your excuses for you.” You shake your head vehemently because you _know_ that with the bi-yearly evaluation, there’s a promotion along with it that you want so badly, because you _know_ you could contribute so much more to MACUSA. Standing abruptly, you startle both yourself and Percival, and he reaches out to steady you when you wobble a little. “Sir, with all due respect, I’m fine. I can and will attend the briefing, and I’ll not let you down.” His gaze softens and he comes over to open the door for you, and you leave but there’s a gentle weight on your shoulder and soft breath by your ear, “You’ve never let me down, and never will.” You’re out of his office, and there’s a blush on your face that isn’t because of the fever.

You’re pretty pleased with yourself, because you managed to stand your ground against Percival, even though he means well and you’re secretly squealing like a little girl because it means he _cares_. You move towards your desk, but the first step you take has you crumpling on the floor like a stack of cards. You think you hear a loud thud and a distant pain in your head because _damn_ , whatever your head hit, it was hard. You can’t help but giggle because _ooh_ apparently you’re sicker than you let on, and _ooh_ is that Percival in front of you? Why does he have bunny ears on top of his head? You try to crane your head to see if he has a lovely cottontail but your neck feels like it’s trapped in a brace, and you settle for pouting because you _really_ wanted to see his tail! You’re barely conscious, but you muster all the energy you have and point at his head and whisper, “Bunny boy”. The last thing you see before everything goes black is the most incredulous look on Percival’s face that goes _so_ well with his twitching whiskers and floppy ears.

When you open your eyes, you’re staring at the familiar ceiling of your bedroom, and for some reason, a hysterical giggle keeps trying to escape you and you let slip a squeaky _meep_ before you slam a hand across your mouth. You wonder how you got home, dressed in your nightclothes and tucked comfortably beneath your covers, and you’re about to leave your bed when someone clears their throat from the doorway, and by god you swear your neighbours definitely heard your scream.

Because standing at your bedroom door, is Percival fucking Graves, still dressed in his work clothes sans his coat, and looking far too amused for your liking. Your brain makes the connections for you, and you realise that unless Percival got another female to help him, he was the one who changed your clothes. Meaning he saw you in nothing but your undergarments. You think you feel quite faint and sit back down on the bed, and damn him he looks like the cat who got the cream, smiling and being ever so pleased with himself. You point a shaking index finger at him, and dramatically, you announce that you’re suing him for sexual harassment.

He says nothing, only moves closer to you and you scramble to cover yourself, which is pointless really, because the man has already seen you half naked, but still. He surprises you by placing a warm hand on your forehead, and very calmly, tells you that you had a fever of 104̊ and that you’re an idiot for going into work. You shrug, but go completely still as he trails his hand along your face, and your cheeks are burning so badly that he tuts at you, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. He presses a kiss to your burning cheek, and you let out a tiny, involuntary whimper that has the smug bastard smirking. He leans closer and whispers, breath tickling your ear, “Consider that payback for calling me bunny boy.” He pulls himself upright and you’re dazed, both because of his close proximity and _bunny boy?_ He tells you he’s making chicken soup in the kitchen and leaves, and you sit still for a moment before you dash out of bed and holler at him, _your boss_ , “What bunny boy? Percival! Come back here? When did I call you bunny boy?”


End file.
